


dirty fingernails

by firefall



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And Stiles Is All Too Happy To Assist, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Dresses And Braids And Makeup Oh My!, Established Relationship, F/M, Malia Needs Help With Human Things, Promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 10:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12815439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefall/pseuds/firefall
Summary: “You look beautiful,” Stiles admits, watching her put her shoes on and shove the extra dresses back into the plastic bag.  Little wisps of hair have escaped her braid, softening her face so you can almost catch a glimpse of the girl she used to be, the girl she’ll probably never be again.  But that’s okay, because Stiles likesthisgirl, sharp teeth and dirty fingernails and all.  Which is why, as he turns his words back over in his head, he panics and rushes to explain, “Not that you don’t look beautiful all the time!  You don’t need all that to—”“Stiles, I don’t care,” Malia cuts him off, rolling her eyes just like she always does.  “I don’t need you to think I’m beautiful, I just need you to stay with me.”Human things are hard, but at least Malia isn't alone anymore.





	dirty fingernails

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf: *ends*  
> Me: *randomly gets super inspired to write a bunch of Things no one will read*
> 
> This was written because I honestly can't believe that a girl who lived in the woods for 8 years as an actual _animal_ would be all pretty and put-together and bother making herself "presentable" all that often. So I just went for a more realistic take on Malia's entrance back into the human world, at least on an appearance level. Deep content, I know. #LetMaliaBeAMess
> 
> Warnings for: swearing and that's it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not profiting off this work and the characters belong to Teen Wolf and Jeff Davis. Unfortch.

This time when Malia rolls in through Stiles’ window, it’s the middle of the day and she’s carrying a plastic grocery bag.

“You know you can use the front door, right?” Stiles says, glancing up from his laptop, but he’s not actually bothered.  Just last week he’d had to espouse the merits of wearing a shirt to school – apparently state laws don’t mean much to girls who’d spent eight years in the woods – so he figures he can worry about doors later.  He gestures at the bag.  “What d’ya got there?”

She lets out a deep sigh in answer and flings it onto the bed.  “Dresses,” she tells him and it sounds strikingly similar to the way she says _math_.  “I have to go to a wedding with my dad.”

Stiles watches in amusement as she pulls three balled-up dresses from the plastic bag.  They’re wrinkled beyond repair.  “When?”

“In an hour,” she says matter-of-factly and Stiles’ eyes widen.  “So I need your help.”

He’s out of his chair in a second.  “Shit, okay, yeah,” he breathes, untangling the mess of fabric to see if any of the dresses are salvageable or if he needs to put the Stilinski family iron to work for the first time in nine years.  Luckily, there’s a light blue one that only sort of looks like it’s been wadded up and come tumbling in through a window.  “Wear this one,” he says, holding it out to her.  “It’s kinda…slippery?  So it survived the bag.”

That’s good enough for Malia and the next thing Stiles knows, she’s stripping her clothes off right there in front of Stiles’ open bedroom door.

“ _Dude_!” Stiles hisses, racing to shut it.  “My dad’s home!”

“Whatever.”  Malia rolls her eyes, stepping into the dress and yanking it up where it belongs.  “Just zip me.”

He does as he’s told, moving her hair out of the way and leaving a kiss at the top of her spine once he’s finished.  Goosebumps rise on her skin and he smiles to himself.  “There,” he says quietly, gently turning her around to face him.  “Now let me see you.”

She looks beautiful.  And very much like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world at that very moment.

“This is stupid,” she says, taking a fistful of fabric in each hand and shaking it violently to air her displeasure.  “Why do we have to wear these?”

A warm feeling blooms in Stiles’ chest and travels through his entire body, very suddenly and completely overwhelmed with affection.  “Because people are sexist,” Stiles says wisely, putting a hand on each of her shoulders and pausing just long enough to give her a peck on the forehead.  “And they don’t like seeing girls in suits.”

“I’d look great in a fucking suit,” she mutters under her breath and Stiles is grateful Malia hasn’t quite mastered her supernatural hearing because he’s pretty sure his heart skips a beat at the image.

“You so would,” he agrees, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it because he notices her hair for the first time.  Namely the sticks and leaves sticking out of it every which way.  And while Stiles would proudly march around the entire state of California hand-in-hand with his messy girlfriend, leaves and mud-streaks and all, he knows not everyone is so accepting.  The last thing he wants is for some idiot at the wedding to make a snide comment, because as tough as Malia is, she’s surprisingly sensitive when she feels like she messed up a “human” thing.  Again.

Plus, she’d probably tear their face off and that’s not something anyone wants to deal with.  Especially not Stiles.

So he reaches out and plucks a twig from her ponytail.  “You got something there,” he says, then gives her a sheepish smile.  “And everywhere.”

“Dammit.”  She races to the mirror, nose wrinkling in annoyance as her fingers scramble to pull the debris from her hair.  Some of the leaves are stubborn, crumbling in her hands and leaving flecks stuck in the dark brown locks, so she rips the scrunchie from her hair with a growl so loud there’s no way Stiles’ dad could have missed it.  But Dad hasn’t been in to check on them since finding police-grade handcuffs under Stiles’ pillow, so he doesn’t bother hushing her.

Stiles could have explained that the cuffs were for the full moon, but if it kept the freaking sheriff of Beacon Hills out of his stuff, then Dad was free to believe whatever he wanted.

Malia growls again, eyes glowing and claws appearing as she practically attacks her head.  Before she can work herself up into a slashing fury, Stiles rushes to her side and takes her wrists in each of his hands.  “Hey, hey,” he says, tone gentle.  “It’s okay.  I’ll help you.”

So he does, leading her over to sit on the bed and extracting the last bits of forest from her hair, careful not to pull.  Then, throwing caution to the wind, he smooths her hair back away from her face and starts braiding it behind her.  The room goes quiet, the tension falling from Malia’s body as he works.  It’s a kind of intimacy Stiles has never felt before, even with Malia, and his hands tremble when he finally ties it off.  “All better,” he whispers, flipping it over her shoulder so she can look at it.  “See?”

When Malia turns to him, her face is soft.  “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Used to braid my mom’s hair all the time,” Stiles says, a sudden rush of emotion making his throat go tight.  “She hated the way her hair’d get all matted in the hospital bed, so she taught me how.  I’d do it almost every day after school.”

He’s fighting tears by the end of it and Malia can tell, so she comforts him the best way she knows how: she kisses him.  Once, twice, then three times before Stiles smiles against her mouth and pulls away.  “You know I’d do that all day,” he says around the lump in his throat, “but you’ve got a wedding to go to.  Anything else you need help with?”

Malia ducks her head, almost like she’s embarrassed.  “Just one thing,” she says, pulling something from the bottom of the plastic bag and tossing it over to him.  When he catches it, he sees that it’s a small jar of mascara.  “My aunt got it for me and I’m afraid I’m gonna mess it up.  Wasn’t much use for makeup in the woods.”

Stiles snorts.  “I wouldn’t think so.”  He turns the mascara over in his hands.  “Are you sure you don’t want Lydia or Kira to do this part?  I can get one of them over here in about five minutes flat.”

“Why?”  She looks at him blankly like he’s not making any sense.  “Why would I want them to do it?”

“Because they actually know how?” Stiles says and it’s solid logic if you ask him, but Malia just looks increasingly confused.  “I’m not gonna be any good at it.”

“You’re good at everything,” Malia disagrees, tone allowing for no argument.  Her dark eyes are deadly serious, like she believes it with everything she’s got.  It makes Stiles’ stomach flip and his face go warm.  “And I don’t like them…I like _you_.”

“Let’s see if you like me after this,” Stiles mumbles, but pulls the wand from the jar all the same.

It soon becomes obvious that Stiles is every bit as bad as he said he’d be, crawling around the entire bed and nearly standing on his head trying to find a good angle.  On his seventh try, Malia huffs in annoyance and grabs him by the waist, pulling him into her lap so he’s straddling her hips.  When he protests that he doesn’t want to hurt her, pushing up onto his knees to get his ass off her legs, Malia levels him with the most unimpressed look he’s ever seen. 

“I can bench press two of you,” she points out, tone flat.  “Just do it.”

And, well…fair enough.

When it’s all said and done, she still has both her eyes and his hipbones aren’t fine dust in her hands so Stiles counts it as a success.  The left eye is slightly darker than the right and he can’t remedy it no matter how hard he tries, but Malia is satisfied so he lets it go.

“You look beautiful,” he admits, watching her put her shoes on and shove the extra dresses back into the plastic bag.  Little wisps of hair have escaped her braid, softening her face so you can almost catch a glimpse of the girl she used to be, the girl she’ll probably never be again.  But that’s okay, because Stiles likes _this_ girl, sharp teeth and dirty fingernails and all.  Which is why, as he turns his words back over in his head, he panics and rushes to explain, “Not that you don’t look beautiful all the time!  You don’t need all that to—”

“Stiles, I don’t care,” Malia cuts him off, rolling her eyes just like she always does.  “I don’t need you to think I’m beautiful, I just need you to stay with me.”  Her cheeks go pink for a fraction of a second before she clenches her jaw and looks up at him, fierce and stubborn and everything Stiles could ever ask for.  “Even when I’m bad at things.  Even when I need help.”

It’s so much more than dresses and braids and mascara and Stiles _knows_ it, so he carefully takes her hand and pulls her in.  “Only if _you_ stay with _me_ ,” he says, trying to keep the insecurity out of his voice.  “Because I need help a lot, too.”

That makes her grin.  “You sure do,” she agrees, nodding vehemently, but she soothes it with a kiss that dissolves not only the protest on the tip of his tongue, but any leftover traces of uncertainty as well. 

They’re messed up, but they’re working on it.

As if to prove his point, Malia opts to leave through the front door rather than the window, leaving Stiles in his bedroom in a state of shock.  Then he looks through the curtains to find her climbing over the back fence, the plastic bag clenched between her teeth and her dress hiked up much too high to be considered polite.  He snorts to himself, shaking his head.  The door was enough progress for one day – he’ll worry about fences tomorrow.

They’ve got time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!!


End file.
